Caught Off Guard, Floored By Love
by Reinamy
Summary: Helga was a mystery and Arnold wanted to solve her.
1. Flip Side of the Same Coin

**Title: **Caught Off Guard, Floored By Love

**Author:** Reiko K.

**Fandom:** Hey Arnold!

**Pairing:** Arnold/Helga

**Rating:** PG-13

**Warnings:** Language, Helga-esque crushing (i.e. stalkerish tendencies), mature themes

**Summary:** Helga was a mystery and Arnold wanted to solve her.

**Disclaimer: **This is unprofitable fan work. I don't own these characters—I'm just borrowing them. No copyright infringement intended. Really. Also, title from the _Maria Mena_ song.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I'm jumping on the Hey Arnold! bandwagon. Whee. I don't remember anything about the end of the series so let's ignore it (and the movie) just in case. I've seen a few episodes on TV recently and hopefully that (and the HA! Wikia) will be enough to keep everyone in character, though keep in mind that they're older so they won't be exactly the same. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this little experiment of mine. If everything goes according to plan the story will be roughly 25 chapters overall so prepare yourselves for a long, bumpy, and what I hope to be an entertaining ride. Happy reading and don't be afraid to leave feedback.

**Story Notes:**

[1] If you're looking for a fast romance then you need to look elsewhere. This fic is going to focus on Arnold's developing feelings for Helga and their relationship as they make the transition from being barely acquaintances to something so much more, and I have every intention of making it seem as natural and plausible as possible. There won't be any quick fixes or shortcuts here, folks, and when I say slow build I _mean _slow build. Also, this is an Arnold-centric story and I will not be alternating POVs.

[2] The creator of the show never specified exactly where HA! was located so I'm setting everything in New York City. "Hillwood", the fictional city the characters reside in, will be a neighborhood in Brooklyn. Don't worry, I won't get too technical with it. The story takes place in the fall of 2001, following the idea that Arnold started 4th grade in 1995. He's currently in 10th grade and recently turned 16.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

* * *

Arnold wasn't sure when he started doing it. Noticing things about her, that is. Not that she'd been particularly invisible to him all those years—well, okay, so maybe she had been, but that wasn't the point. The point was that he'd noticed himself noticing her… which was all kinds of weird.

The first time he realized it was nearly a month ago when she'd smiled at him. An accident, probably, since she'd scowled immediately after and nearly shoved him into the wall when she'd stomped past him, but for half a second there _had _been a genuine smile. And… it had been kind of nice.

He'd been watching her ever since. _Actively_ watching her. Looking for what, though, he wasn't quite sure. Whenever she was within view he found his gaze fixated on her, riveted. He took in all the little things she did—like pursing her lips while she thought and tugging her hair behind her ear when she was nervous—that he'd never noticed about her before.

As the weeks flew by Arnold realized that there were _a lot_ of things he didn't know about Helga G. Pataki, the most bizarre of them being that she seemed to watch him just as much. Which was. _Well_. Best not to think too much about that. It wasn't as if he could come up with a plausible reason for it anyway, and assuming something _that _insane might be potentially deadly. It was Helga, after all. Best not get too carried away when it came to her.

So he watched her. Watched her watch him when she thought he wasn't looking. Watched her blush and scowl when she realized that he'd caught on.

It was fascinating. Which was why he was so reluctant to, well, _stop_. It had nothing to do with the way her cheeks flushed when their eyes met, or the way her mouth pouted when she was confused, or the way a dimple appeared on her right cheek when she allowed herself to smile (rarity that was). Nothing at all. Helga was just an interesting person, and Arnold assured himself that was all there was to it.

And that was the truth.

_Really_.

* * *

He knew she was there the moment she stepped into the classroom. OK, so maybe it was kind of obvious from the way Jimmy Wentsworth squeaked and ran across the room like the hounds of hell were at his heels (which he only ever did when Helga turned up, and dammit if he wasn't curious to know why), but sometimes he liked to think he would be able to tell whenever she was near him. And then he'd think about it for a moment and realize how _insane _that sounded and would hastily cross the thought from his mind. For the time being. The human subconscious was fickle that way.

He lowered his head and furtively watched from the corner of his eye as she treaded down the aisle and slipped into the desk beside his. She tossed her open bag onto the table and began rummaging through it, her eyes narrowing as she searched for whatever it was she couldn't find. A whole minute passed before she scowled and withdrew her hands—and Arnold distractedly noticed that her fingernails were painted peach—and snapped her head in his direction.

Arnold, who'd been too preoccupied with being nosy, didn't even bother trying to pretend he hadn't just been unabashedly staring. This was America, a free country. He wasn't doing anything wrong by looking. It was practically constitutional!

Unfortunately that didn't lessen his embarrassment at being caught any, so when Helga said "Hey, football head—", his response had been less than admirable.

"Huh?" he answered dumbly.

Helga rolled her eyes. "Jeez, football head, could you get any more dense? Give me a damn pencil before I knock your teeth in already."

Arnold blinked at her twice, her words slowly registering, before sighing and reaching into the cubby of his desk to retrieve one. He clumsily handed it over and very nearly jumped when their fingers brushed at the exchange. He noticed Helga go rigid, then go red, before she snatched her hand back with a strained "thanks" and trained her attention to the front.

Arnold glanced at her desk and noticed that the hand holding his pencil was tightly clenched, the knuckles white.

_Fascinating. _

He bit his lip and bent over to retrieve a spare—because Helga never, ever returned the things she borrowed—and unconsciously slid his gaze towards her as he clasped the bag shut and sat up.

She was staring at him.

Her face reddened at being caught and she hastily turned her head, chin falling into her palm as she hunched over and stared at the wall beside her.

Arnold observed the blush that brightened her ears, and the way her cheeks twitched, no doubt from biting her lip (an agitated habit of hers he'd discovered a week ago, which gave support to the slight overbite of her front teeth he'd been unreasonably curious about). When she tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear, Arnold grinned knowingly. She was nervous, and how many other people were capable of understanding what the indecipherable Helga G. Pataki was feeling at almost any given time?

Not many, he was sure.

The door to the classroom promptly opened and their history teacher, Mrs. Fizz, sauntered in with a smile. Arnold reluctantly tore his gaze away from Helga—a good thing, since he really didn't want anyone else catching on to this new…game of his—and directed his attention to the front.

Mrs. Fizz finished writing the day's 'aim' on the board and had started on the 'do now', so Arnold quickly flipped his notebook open and began to copy everything down.

By the end of the class he'd only managed to get half of his work done. He stared at the cluttered pages of his notebook, littered with clumsy sketches of curled hair behind slightly pointed ears and blazing, colorless eyes among his sloppy class notes. He took a minute to scratch out all the _Helga's_ that had somehow ended up everywhere and didn't bother wasting brain cells trying to figure out _why _he'd felt inclined to write her name in his notebook, consciously or not.

He'd been wondering about her, hence the unintentional, _distracted_ scrawling of her name everywhere. That was plausible. Accurate. No further pondering of the bizarre situation was necessary.

In the end it was less time consuming to just rip out the pages, tear them up, and scrunch them into a ball which he stuffed firmly into his pocket. He hitched the strap of his bag onto his shoulder and stood, nearly bumping into Helga who'd taken a step sideways to ease out of the aisle.

"Watch it, football head," she snapped at him, brushing past him and storming out of the class. Jimmy, who saw her coming, gasped and hightailed it out of the door, the belongings on his desk all but forgotten.

Arnold shook his head, and a new resolve to talk to Jimmy and figure out just what the heck had happened between him and Helga that caused him to treat her like the Antichrist took form. He waited for everyone in his aisle to leave before easing out, waving absentmindedly at Mrs. Fizz as he left.

As he walked into the hall—hectic and raucous, the way only a public school hallway could be— he mentally sorted his priorities.

_1) Get the notes from someone in class. Probably Ernest—his handwriting was legible._

_2) Learn what Jimmy's issue with Helga was._

_3) Find out what shampoo Helga used for her hair._

The last note was a bit…odd, but Arnold was curious. When she'd brushed past him he'd caught a whiff of strawberries and something else he couldn't quite define. He didn't care _what _shampoo Helga used, he really didn't, but the unrecognizable scent was nagging at him to put a name to it. It was hardly his fault that he was so curious. When he got a scent of a mystery, _any _mystery—even ones that revolved around fruity substances in shampoos—he was wholly incapable of letting it go. Hence his need to find out what Helga did to Jimmy. Hence his captivation with finding out what made Helga tick.

Helga was a mystery, and Arnold wanted to solve her.

There was nothing more to it.

_Really._

* * *

"What's got you so distracted in class, anyway?" Gerald asked, arms folded under his head as he watched Arnold write.

"I'm not," Arnold denied.

Gerald snorted. "Arnold, this is the third time you've had to ask Ernest for history notes. Not to mention Pete for English, and Diane for psych., and—"

"Alright, alright, I get it!" Arnold snapped, turning his head to glare at his best friend. "Geez, Gerald, you're keeping tabs on me or something?"

Gerald shrugged. "Maybe. You have to admit, Arnold, this whole thing just isn't like you. You even manage to take notes when you're _sick_. I wouldn't be so damn curious if it'd only been one class or something, but three? Something's going on with you, man, so spill."

Arnold huffed and returned his attention to Pete's notes. He read over the last sentence three times before he was able to decipher it properly and begin copying. Pete was an amazing note taker, but the guy couldn't write neatly even if doing so would save the Earth from utter annihilation.

"Arnold," Gerald pressed.

Arnold ignored him. Another minute or two passed, and when it seemed like Gerald was finally going to let it go, he allowed himself to relax. He should've known better, really.

"Y'know, if I didn't know any better I'd say it was a girl."

Arnold choked. He pounded his fist into his chest and hacked, eyes tearing up at the corners. As he urged himself to take steady breaths and get his reaction under control he heard the springs on his bed groan as Gerald hopped off and stepped towards him.

When he looked up, Gerald's hands were planted on his hips and he was giving Arnold one of his _I'm-onto-you_ looks.

Arnold regretted that his coughing had subsided; there was nothing to distract Gerald now.

"There's a girl," Gerald said flatly. It wasn't a question.

"What?" Arnold rasped, eyes wide. "N-no! Of course not!" And he wasn't lying. There really _wasn't _a girl—at least, not in the sense Gerald meant. So yeah, he _was _interested in Helga, but not in _that way_. Uh-uh. No way.

"You're lying."

"I'm not!"

Gerald gave him his _I-see-right-through-you-and-am-unimpressed-with-your-pathetic-inability-to-lie _face.

Before the night was over, Arnold was sure he was going to see a lot more of Gerald's patented faces. He had quite a few of them.

"Then give me a reason why." Gerald argued.

"I said it was nothing!" Arnold said.

Ah, and there was his _you-lie-to-me-one-more-time-and-watch-what-I-do face._ Arnold had seen it hundreds of times before, yet it never failed to make him quake a little. Gerald could be frightening when he wanted to be.

"Honest!" Arnold tried again. Because Gerald finding out that he was getting distracted because of Helga? Even scarier.

Gerald stared at him for a long moment, and Arnold could almost feel the sweat building on his brow.

"Fine," Gerald said, shrugging.

Arnold nearly wilted with relief. And then:

"I'll just have to find out myself."

His shoulders slumped.

Gerald turned on his heel and snatched his bag from Arnold's bed. He shot Arnold one more _it-didn't-have-to-be-this-way-if-you'd-just-been-honest-with-me_ face before he retreated from the attic and shut the door behind him with a loud snap.

Arnold pushed his books aside and buried his head in his arms.

Okay, so he could have told Gerald what was going on, but Gerald never would have understood. He wouldn't have believed Arnold's excuse for the whole Helga-watching thing. Even Arnold was, like, 15% dubious about it (that percentage of which he very rarely ever contemplated). He'd chalk it up to Arnold _liking _Helga, and he didn't! That wasn't what it was about at all!

But Gerald wouldn't have seen it that way.

Arnold exhaled a drawn-out sigh. After a moment of spinning in his chair with his head tipped back he mentally readjusted his list of priorities.

_1) Learn why Jimmy was so afraid of Helga._

_2) Find out what shampoo Helga used._

_3) Catch up in class._

_4) Stop trying to figure out Helga..._

Arnold blanched and did a mental strike-through.

_4) Continue to solve Helga without Gerald finding out about it._

Should be easy.

* * *

…Or not.

Arnold banged his head against the desk, aware of the open door Jimmy had just run screaming out of. He'd need to try a new approach with the guy since apparently just uttering the name "Helga" in front of him was enough to make him go off the deep end.

He sighed. The entire day had been one disappointment after another. He couldn't figure out how to go about finding out what shampoo Helga used, Gerald was now watching him like a hawk—which cut down on his Helga-watching time by _a lot—_he'd nearly bombed a pop-quiz in psych., and now this thing with Jimmy. Arnold wondered if he should just spill the beans to Gerald, make at least one thing easier on himself. He considered it for a moment before shaking his head and slumping further into the desk. He could just imagine the renditions to the 'sitting in a tree' song Gerald would come up with. And Gerald being Gerald, half the school would know about it before the week was over. No, Arnold couldn't tell him.

He'd just have to find a way to deal with everything by himself, as they were.

Arnold sighed. He really was too young to be this stressed out.

* * *

_**tbc.**_


	2. Congratulations, It's a Person

**CHAPTER TWO**

* * *

"…Arnold and Helga."

Arnold's jaw went slack and he stared at Mr. Cooper in shock.

"You'll be doing your assignment on _Macbeth_. Next, Ronald and Lila…"

Mr. Cooper's droning voice faded as Arnold mentally repeated what he'd just heard. Him and Helga. Working on their English project together. For the next two months.

He didn't know whether to be ecstatic or terrified. Sighing, Arnold looked up and caught sight of Helga's stiff back—and when he thought about it, it really was strange that he and Helga not only shared so many classes together, but were seated close to one another in each one—and frowned. She was upset about something, but he wasn't sure what.

_Probably_, Arnold thought glumly, twirling his pen between his fingers, _upset that she has to pair up with me. _

Arnold knew he shouldn't be bothered by that. Helga didn't really like _anyone_, so feeling like her animosity towards him was personal was stupid. There was a niggling feeling that it _was, _though. Arnold was the only person who Helga actually bothered to, well, acknowledge—as few and far between as those instances were. Arnold had caught her staring at him more times than he could count, and while the pieces still didn't quite add up, he was sure it had something to do with her hostility towards him. The angry blush that flushed her cheeks and the aggravated way in which she bit her lip immediately after being caught staring at him were evidence enough.

Arnold had been watching her for a while now and was positive that she didn't glare at anyone else as often as she glared at him. And no, maybe Arnold wasn't around to watch her each and every moment—not that he wanted to or anything!—but still. As far as he knew, he was the _only _one.

"Class!" Mr. Cooper barked, snapping Arnold out of his thoughts. "Quiet down!"

The room fell silent, and Mr. Cooper continued briskly. "I want those I've assigned as partners to sit together. Turn your desks around, switch seats if you have to—do whatever you need to do to make it happen. After, _one_ of you will come to the front and pick up your assignment packets. There are still fifteen minutes left of class. Discuss the details with your partner and remember, as this will _not_ be an in-class assignment, it falls to you to schedule time to work on this project together outside of school hours." He paused and added, "And keep the ruckus to a minimum, will you?"

The next few minutes were a flurry of activity. Chairs and desks were pushed around, filling the room with sounds of thudding wood, clanking metal, and plastic screeching on tile. The cacophony of chattering and laughing seemed to only increase in octaves as the seconds ticked by and the students moved about.

Helga, unsurprisingly, hadn't so much as moved an inch, so it was up to Arthur gather his things and make the approach. He stole a random chair and placed it in front of her desk, then set his bag on it. Knowing that he couldn't count on her to collect their assignments, Arnold strode towards the teacher's desk. He gave Mr. Cooper a strained smile as he was handed their packets, as well as two worn, battered copies of _Macbeth. _

Arnold couldn't be too sure, but he thought the look Mr. Cooper had given him had been sympathetic. Considering how often Helga's partners begged to be reassigned to other people, Arnold probably hadn't imagined it.

His tread towards Helga's desk felt akin to walking towards an executioner's block. Which was _stupid_. Helga, while mean and violent and short-tempered, wasn't _evil _or anything. It wasn't as if she was going to chop Arnold into bits and feed him to the neighborhood dogs. They _had _worked on a project together before... which, come to think of it, was a memory that Arnold would have probably been better off not using if he was trying to be optimistic.

They'd been in the same third grade class together and the joint assignment they'd been given had been an important one, from what he remembered. Arnold couldn't recall what they'd been working on, exactly, but his recollection of Helga throwing crayons at him and shoving clay in his mouth was a clear one.

But they'd been eight! Surely working with Helga _now _wouldn't be _that_ bad.

He hoped.

_Besides,_ Arnold reassured himself as he moved his bag off the chair and took the seat, _it could have been worse._ At least Helga wasn't the type to push her share of the work onto other people, like Tray Davis had attempted with Arnold last semester. And at least she wasn't stupid. Also like Tray Davis.

Compared to him, Arnold was sure Helga'd seem like a saint.

* * *

…So maybe 'saint' was a bit too idealistic. Arnold needed to stop trying to be so optimistic because clearly it wasn't working for him.

Arnold groaned as the bell rang, indicating the end of the period.

They'd literally spent the last fifteen minutes of class just sitting there like plants, doing nothing. Well, _he'd _been doing nothing. Helga had been well occupied with dividing her time between sending him death glares and staring moodily at her desk. Every time Arnold had so much as tried to discuss their project, Helga would send him a quelling glower that shut him right up. In the end he'd resigned himself to reading his packet silently and fretting over how to handle the situation without getting killed.

He was still fresh out of ideas by the time the class ended. He returned his chair to what he doubted was its proper desk and collected his things. Arnold straightened his back, took a deep breath, and turned around. He was prepared to make one last ditch effort to schedule a time to start working on the project, but faltered when he saw Helga standing there, barely two feet in front of him.

Boy, was she tall.

"My house, five p.m., _don't_ be late." Her eyes promised terrible things if he dared not obey. She then turned on her heel and stomped away.

Arnold gaped after her.

Well then. He supposed that was that.

* * *

It was dark when he reached his destination, the light in the sky dwindling with the retreating sun. It was also unbearably cold; Arnold had spent the entire walk with his arms crossed over his chest and wishing that he'd had the foresight to bring a coat. As it was, he was freezing by the time he rounded the corner onto the block where Helga lived, his nose and ears in particular feeling as if they were going to fall off his face.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he reached the door labeled _426\. _There was nothing fancy about Helga's apartment building, though it was certainly in better condition than his own. Shouldering his school bag, he hopped up the front steps and roamed his eyes over the line of doorbell buttons until he found the blue one beside a white tag that read PATAKI.

Arnold bit his lip and let his eyes linger over the quarter-sized button for some time. He gave in and pressed it when the chill became too much.

He heard a faint buzzer sound from inside the building and rocked back on his heels.

The tall, wooden door opened and Helga appeared, wearing the same plain clothes she'd worn that day in school. Only her hair was different—the single ponytail she usually wore styled and tightened into a messy bun.

"Hi—," Arnold started awkwardly.

He was interrupted by Helga's vapid, "You're late, football head."

She then withdrew into the building, leaving the door gaping open in invitation. Arnold hesitated for a second before he shuffled in.

He shut the door behind him and reveled in the instant warmth. He didn't have long to bask, though, as Helga was quickly making her way down the dimly lit hallway. Arnold, not wanting to be left behind, hurried after her. Helga's steps eventually slowed until she stopped in front of a, by the smell of it, newly painted door and pushed it open. She stepped inside without a word and Arnold, feeling increasingly uneasy, followed.

"For Pete's sake, would you close the door already?" Helga's voice rang from behind the wall she'd disappeared behind.

Arnold hastily shut the door, and after a moment's hesitation, turned the lock for good measure.

He stood there, shifting nervously on his feet, until Helga returned to the living room—which, Arnold noticed, was pretty damn large—and frowned at him.

"We're going to my room," she announced glumly. She then stalked towards a long stairwell and began to climb.

To Arnold's surprise she waited for him at the top of the landing before striding down another dark hall and into an open room. She glanced at Arnold for a long, tense moment before she stepped through the threshold and disappeared from his sight.

Arnold quickened his pace. He'd just stepped through the door when he heard a resounding slam come from downstairs.

Helga muttered something under her breath. Arnold caught the words "too early" and "not supposed to" before she pushed past him and left the room.

Feeling oddly timid, Arnold pressed his back against the wall and sighed. After a pathetically short moment he gave into his curiosity and allowed himself to observe the room.

Helga's room was… _not_ how Arnold had expected it to be.

For some reason, he'd thought there'd be more boy things. A few miniature army men here and there, a few balls lying about, maybe a shotgun or a machete on the wall. Helga's room was how he'd expect any girl's room to look, though, which discomfited him somehow.

Her walls were covered by dotted peach wallpaper and the floor was adorned with a rich pink rug. Her bed was also pink, different shades used for the pillows and sheets. There were two white shelves stuffed with books, and another full of toy animals and garishly decorated boxes and picture frames. Other girly ornaments were thrown about that pretty much solidified the fact that the room belonged to a _girl_.

Why Arnold found this so extraordinary was a conundrum. It wasn't as if he hadn't _known _that Helga was a girl. She wore dresses almost every day, though they were often hidden beneath sweaters and made covert by sneakers and tights. She even wore nail polish and lip gloss, though none that ever stood out. Arnold had never looked at Helga and mistaken her for a boy or anything, yet somehow the fact that she was a _real, actual girl_ hadn't properly registered.

Looking around her room, Arnold realized that this was a whole new aspect of Helga that he'd never quite grasped before, let alone considered. It was as much exciting as it was foreboding.

Arnold didn't know why.

He was pulled from his thoughts by sudden thudding on the stairs, and he quickly looked down at his sneakers.

Helga stepped into the room a second later. She shot Arnold a suspicious look—which Arnold countered with his most innocent expression—and huffed.

He watched as she retrieved her bag from the bed and dropped it onto the floor, then promptly plopped down next to it.

"Well?" She snapped, zipping the bag open roughly. "You just going to stand there all night?"

_I'd prefer it,_ Arnold thought sourly. With a soft sigh he reluctantly pushed away from the wall and headed towards her. He found a good spot a few feet away and sat down.

"So," he said.

Helga gave him an unimpressed look and snorted. "Just read the first five scenes, football head. It's not brain science." She then splayed the book open and started to read.

Arnold sighed again and tried to do the same.

* * *

'Tried' being the operative word.

Arnold knew it from reading _Romeo and Juliet _his Freshman year, and he knew it now: Shakespeare _sucked. _

Already an hour had passed and he was still struggling to get through the third scene. He glanced up at Helga and saw that she'd already begun writing and scowled.

Of all the classes to be paired up with Helga in, it just _had _to be English. And assigned with reading _Shakespeare, _no less. The teacher might as well have just stamped 'idiot' on his forehead and failed him at the start. Arnold couldn't see how he'd be able to scrape up a good grade when he could barely understand a word of what anyone was saying. And he certainly wasn't going to ask Helga for help. She'd never let him live it down.

Arnold scowled. He tried to pay better attention to the page in front of him, tried, even, to read it from a different angle, but nothing worked! He was just as lost as he'd been five minutes ago, at the beginning of the verse.

He groaned and dropped the book between his legs. When he looked up a second later, Helga was watching him.

Arnold felt heat rush to his face. He brought the book back up and started the verse from the beginning. He got halfway through it and gave up.

He heard an exasperated exhale, followed by the sound of shuffling, but refused to look up. For as lost as he was, Arnold was _not _going to ask for her help. He felt stupid enough already, thanks. One sarcastic comment from Helga and he'd probably turn into some massive Hulk and tear her room apart.

…or curl into a ball and cry like a baby. Either one.

"Oh, for the love of—," he heard her mutter. "What are you stuck on, football head?"

"Nothing," Arnold retorted stoically. At the rate he was re-reading passages he figured he'd have a few verses memorized before the night was over. He wondered if the teacher would give him extra credit if he was able to recite a chapter or two.

"For Pete's sake," Helga huffed. There was more shuffling, and then Helga was sitting next to him, so close their knees were almost touching.

She ripped the book from his hands, ignored his protested "Hey!", and poked the yellowing page viciously.

"_Where_?" Helga pressed. She held the book open and waited, and Arnold feared she might beat him with it if he didn't answer.

He ignored the abject humiliation churning in his stomach, leaned forward, and pointed.

_"If good, why do I yield that suggestion_

_Whose horrid doth unfix my hair,_

_And make my seated heart knock on my ribs_

_Against the use of nature? Present fears_

_Are less than horrible imaginings:_

_My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,_

_Shake so my single state of man that function_

_Is smothered in surmise, and nothing is_

_But what it is not."_

Arnold saw Helga skim the passage before turning back a page and re-reading the few verses preceding it. When those, as well as the one he'd pointed to, had been read, she passed the book to him and said, "What do you think it means?"

Arnold scowled at her. "If I knew what it meant I wouldn't be struggling with it, now would I?" And perhaps it wasn't his brightest idea to be snarky with her, but Arnold was peeved enough not to care.

Helga shot him a dirty look. "Do you want my help or not?"

_Heck no, _Arnold thought, but nodded in resignation anyway.

"So what do you _think _it means?" she stressed again.

Still frowning, Arnold gave the passage another read-through. After the third time he lifted one shoulder helplessly. "I don't _know_, Helga. I guess he's saying he's not cut out to do what's required of him to fulfill his fate… like murder… or something…" he trailed off, embarrassment making him flush. He glanced down again and shut the book, knowing that he'd said something stupid.

Which was why he was so surprised when Helga said, "You're right, football head."

Arnold stared at her in surprise.

She scoffed. "I said it before, quit treating this like it's brain science. It _isn't. _Despite all his fancy words, Shakespeare's a real simple, _literal_ guy. It all seems perplexing because of the archaic pronouns and the way he words things, but if you think about it, it's not all that confusing. Most people get the gist of what he's saying, if not the sentence-by-sentence translation, but they start second-guessing themselves because they don't think it can be _that_ _easy _and then just end up confusing themselves when they'd _had _it—like you."

Helga exhaled sharply and turned away from Arnold's stunned gaze.

"Whatever. It's time for you to go, loser. I have other homework to finish."

A lot happened after that, though it all seemed like a giant blur. One moment he was staring dumbstruck at Helga, who'd not only spoken more words in one breath than he'd ever heard her speak in a full _week_, but had sounded as if she'd actually been trying to _reassure _him, too (which was just all kinds of astronomically bizarre) and the next moment he was being pushed out of her apartment, Helga at his heels.

She thrust a small book into his hands the moment he stumbled outside and then slammed the door in his face.

Arnold stared at the door for a good few minutes, and then at the thin red book in his hands. The title read: _The Key to Reading Shakespeare, by Augusta Morales. _

Arnold wasn't sure how he got home without being hit by a car in his daze, but he somehow managed it.

* * *

**_tbc._**


	3. Groundbreaking News and Godawful Days

**CHAPTER THREE**

* * *

The bell indicating the end of third period rang and Arnold quickly packed his things and hurried out of the classroom. He waited for Gerald to fall in line with him and they made their way through the busy hallways of Hillwood High as they headed towards their next class.

Arnold was seriously regretting his choice to wait for his friend before they'd even made it halfway down the hall.

"Come _on_ Arnold, would you just tell me who she is already?" Gerald whined.

Arnold rolled his eyes. "Gerald, I already told you, there is no 'she'."

Gerald scoffed. "Please, man, this is _me _you're talking to. I know a guy with a crush when I see one, and you, Arnold? Are a guy with a crush."

Arnold groaned. Gerald had been on his case about this for a week now, but rather than lose steam like Arnold had hoped, he only seemed to get more persistent the more Arnold dismissed the idea that there really wasn't a girl involved. Arnold had always considered himself to have pretty thick skin but already Gerald was wearing him thin.

"Gerald, there is_ no_ _crush_," he insisted loudly for the _seventh_ time that day. "I've had a lot of things on my mind, sure, but I'm not _crushing _on anyone."

There was a sudden commotion behind him. Arnold turned around just in time to see Helga shoot him an alarmed look before she snapped her gaze away and bent down to collect the books she'd apparently dropped. Some guy—a freshman, most likely—stepped forward to help, but Helga shot him a glare so fierce he held out his hands and took a hurried step back.

Gerald followed Arnold's gaze and shook his head. "That girl is crazy," he said quietly. "I always thought she'd grow out of being, well, _her_ when we hit high school, but man, she only seems to get worse."

Arnold nodded absently. His attention was focused on the way Helga's hands shook as she stuffed her books into her bag (it was a different one than she usually used, Arnold noted distractedly). Helga was biting her lip again—_no_, Arnold corrected, she was practically _gnawing _on it—and he wondered what the heck had made her so upset.

Curious, Arnold nudged Gerald in the side and asked, "Helga doesn't seem upset to you or anything, does she?"

Gerald snorted derisively. "What planet are you on, Arnold? Helga is _always _upset. The day that girl _isn't_ will be the day pigs fly, hell freezes over, and Harold turns down a cheeseburger. Now _c'mon__,_ Santiago's gonna chew us out if we're late."

He grabbed Arnold's sleeve and dragged him down the hall, stubbornly ignoring Arnold's insistence that he could walk himself. Just before they rounded the corner Arnold felt a prickling at the back of his neck and craned his head.

Helga was standing in the exact same spot—swarms of students weaving around her as if there was a force field surrounding her they couldn't breach—and staring at him, an unreadable expression on her face.

Arnold felt something clench inside him and he shivered. He felt both relieved and disappointed when the corner of the wall hindered his view and Helga fell from his line of sight.

* * *

After that morning's incident Gerald couldn't seem to stop talking about Helga. It was as if a switch had gone off in his head, one that blared 'Helga G. Pataki is alive and on your radar; discuss her weirdness at length to your best friend until a) you talk him to death, or b) he beats you into an early grave'.

Arnold wasn't quite sure which one was going to happen first.

"Gerald, could you quit talking about _Helga _already?" Arnold groaned into his pillow.

Gerald, unsurprisingly, didn't listen. "Don't you find it strange, though? I mean, girl has no friends here, talks to _no one _unless she's threatening to beat them to a pulp or insulting 'em—"

"Maybe she's just shy," Arnold interrupted, just to be contrary.

Gerald laughed. "Diane is _shy_, Arnold. Eugene is _shy_. Helga is many things, but shy ain't one of them."

Arnold felt the urge to argue that yes, actually, Helga _was _a little shy. Not often, but sometimes. She had a habit of playing with her fingers and everything. Which Gerald would _know_ if he'd just pay a little more attention to her, but Arnold didn't voice the thought. If he pushed the subject Gerald would grow suspicious, and a suspicious Gerald was even worse than a curious one.

"I'm surprised she hasn't flunked out, actually," Gerald continued, in complete gossip mode now. "She already failed two math classes, and I hear the rest of her math grades are so abysmal she only just made it to 10th grade by the skin of her teeth."

Arnold paused at that.

"_Really_?" he asked, stunned. He only had the one math class with Helga, and while he knew that she struggled, he hadn't known it had been _that_ bad.

"Yup. I heard about it from Nadine who's interning at the main office. The vice principal made a huge deal about it last semester and called in her parents and everything. From what I've heard, if she doesn't get at _least_ a C- in all her classes this term she'll have to repeat the year, and going to summer school ain't gonna cut it."

* * *

_"I am settled, and bent up_

_Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. _

_Away, and mock the time with fairest show:_

_False face must hide what the false heart doth know."_

"Finally," Arnold groaned, snapping the book shut and tossing it. He could finally get started on Act 2.

He glanced at the thin book beside _Macbeth _and sighed. The book Helga had given him had been immensely helpful. _Macbeth _was still frustrating to read, but not nearly to the extent it had been before. Arnold no longer felt as if reading it was akin to experiencing Chinese water torture. Heck, he was even beginning to enjoy the story a little, which was really saying something.

Arnold peered at the book for a long moment and with another drawn-out exhale turned over and flopped onto his back.

He still couldn't wrap his brain around what Gerald had told him earlier that evening; couldn't reconcile the girl who leafed through one of Shakespeare's plays like it was an Amelia Bedelia book with the girl who was, apparently, flunking her math classes.

It didn't make sense. At all.

He knew she struggled in algebra, had even overheard the teacher scolding her for a poor test grade after class once, but Arnold had never given it much thought. Everyone, himself included, had at least one class they had trouble with. Unless their name was Tray Davis, most managed to scrape by somehow.

Arnold glanced at his clock and groaned when he realized how late it was. He had half a mind to fall asleep right where he was but quickly canned the idea. He wasn't _that _pathetic. His thoughts were spinning as he shrugged out of his clothes, tossed them to the floor, and crawled under the blanket clad only in his underwear. He stared up at the black, starless sky through the ceiling windows and forced his mind to quiet down. He didn't have answers to any of the questions he had and no amount of thinking about it was going to change that.

Arnold rolled to his side and closed his eyes. He had math with Helga tomorrow and he'd try to get some answers then, but for now he needed to sleep.

With some semblance of a plan in the works, he drifted off.

* * *

Arnold woke up feeling tired. It was one of those nights where even the hint of noise was enough to pull him from sleep, and considering he lived in a boarding house, there'd been more than enough of it to keep him awake. It didn't help that his dreams had been overwhelming, the kind that followed you from one state of unconscious to the next even when you wished it wouldn't.

Arnold had a feeling that his day wasn't going to be a very good one.

When he finally made it to the school he was all but dragging his feet. He didn't even want to think about what he looked like. Lucky for him he had a best friend who didn't feel the need to show the same restraint.

"Geez Arnold, you look _awful,_" Gerald chirped.

Arnold hated morning people.

"Thanks, Gerald," he said, leaning his forehead against his locker. The cool metal felt amazing against his skin so he kept it there.

"No, but seriously, are you alright man? You really do look terrible."

Arnold wondered if it was about time he tried to find himself a new best friend. He considered telling Gerald this but he was interrupted by the piercing homeroom bell and had to focus his attentions on getting himself upright and moving instead.

"Well?" Gerald poked him.

"I didn't sleep well," Arnold admitted. He stepped to the side just in time to avoid being toppled over by a girl who was dashing madly down the hall. If the startled yells behind him were anything to go by, someone else hadn't been as quick.

Gerald glanced behind him and shook his head. He turned back to Arnold and asked, "Well, why not?"

Arnold shrugged. "Don't know. Every little thing just kept waking me up."

Gerald nodded and went quiet. They rounded the corner, avoided another confrontation with someone else who thought it was a good idea to run in a hallway full of people carrying books, and entered the classroom.

"Maybe," Gerald started, "it's because you were _frustrated_." He shot Arnold a dirty grin and waggled his eyebrows.

It took Arnold an embarrassingly long time to realize that Gerald was continuing their earlier conversation, and even longer to figure out what he'd meant.

Arnold felt heat rush to his cheeks and he shoved his friend away from him.

"Gerald!" he hissed.

Gerald threw his head back and cackled. He made his way to his desk, which was across the room, waving to Arnold as he went. Arnold, feeling uncharacteristically mortified, shook his head and slunk quietly into his seat.

It wasn't that he was exactly embarrassed by what Gerald had said. They were sixteen year old guys, after all, and they did talk about those…things. Arnold, while modest (and definitely more so than Gerald), wasn't exactly a _prude_. But he'd been thinking about Helga last night, and the thought of him actually…and with _her _in mind…

The homeroom teacher walked in and greeted the class cheerfully and Arnold had never been more grateful for the appearance of a teacher in his life. He hunched into himself, willed away the blush warming his cheeks, and purposefully pulled out his folder, intent on forgetting that whole conversation had happened at all.

Incidentally, he wasn't very successful at it.

* * *

Walking into math class was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand: finally! On the other hand, he felt his cheeks warm at the sight of Helga who was seated in the last row, scrawling in a book like she often was. Her hand was moving quickly, barely pausing except to move onto the next line. Clearly she wasn't working on anything related to math.

Arnold took his seat and encountered his first problem. His desk was at the front of the first row and Helga's was at the back of the same row. How was he going to observe her when he couldn't even _see _her? Frustrated, he pulled out his pen and started jotting down the morning exercises while the teacher called attendance. Arnold lifted his hand when his name was called—he was one of the few kids in class who the teacher called by first name, not that Arnold blamed the guy, his last name was terrible—and returned to his work, only pausing when Helga's name came up and a bored "Here," followed by a not-so-quiet "Unfortunately," came from the back of the room. The class tittered and Mr. Santiago sharply ordered everyone to quiet down. He didn't bother scolding Helga, but Arnold knew he'd be docking class participation points anyway. Mr. Santiago was well-known for his love of the point deduction system.

When he told everyone to pull out the workbooks from beneath their chairs Arnold inwardly groaned. It was going to be a long, boring class.

He quickly solved the problems on the assigned page—the math involving slopes was relatively easy for him—and finally allowed himself to look back. He had to lean sideways quite a bit to see Helga from where he was, but he managed, and without falling to boot. He didn't know what he was expecting to see, exactly, but what he actually saw wasn't it. Helga looked genuinely _frustrated_; she was glaring at the workbook like it had personally offended her and was gripping her pencil so hard he wasn't surprised when it eventually snapped.

So that's where the noise always came from. Arnold had wondered.

The sight of her so obviously struggling shouldn't have been so surprising for him, but it _was. _Helga always looked so bored in class, like she was too advanced for the material (and Arnold could admit that in most cases, she probably was) and she was just biding her time until graduation. She always managed to instantly grasp concepts that sometimes took Arnold weeks to wrap his head around. For all the student body liked to pretend that Helga was a brainless ape, she was actually frighteningly intelligent.

So how she could possibly struggle with something as easy as _slopes _was completely baffling.

Arnold realized he'd been staring a little too long when he heard Mr. Santiago cough loudly and say, "Arnold, whatever it is you're looking so intently at, I highly doubt it's as important as the book collecting dust on your desk."

Helga's head shot up. Their gazes caught for a second too long and Mr. Santiago cleared his throat again.

"Sorry, sir," Arnold apologized quickly, turning around. "I just, um, I thought I saw a rat."

There was a loud squeal and Arnold heard the sound of chairs screeching against the floor and the heavy patter of feet. When he looked back it was to see several students sitting on their desks and a few others scouring the floor for the nonexistent rodent. Arnold guiltily turned around again and said, "Uh, I was probably wrong, though."

Mr. Santiago's thick mustache twitched.

"Settle down!" he barked. Arnold cringed; he was always reminded of his neighbor's obnoxiously loud Golden Retriever when he did that. "If there had, in fact, been a rat present," and the look he gave Arnold was all Arnold needed to know that he hadn't believed a word of it, "it had undoubtedly fled by the sheer amount of _noise _you are all making. Now be _quiet _before I add an extra page to the one you're already doing!"

That effectively shut the class up.

Satisfied, Mr. Santiago returned to his desk and flipped open his grade book. Arnold didn't have to be a genius to know what he was doing, and who he was doing it to.

He slunk into his chair and sighed. Ugh, what a day.

* * *

Arnold was the first person out of his seat when the bell rang. He slapped his work onto the desk, slipped out of class, and sighed in relief when Mr. Santiago didn't call for him to stay behind.

Gerald sauntered out shortly after and immediately rounded on him. "What was that about?"

"Um," Arnold said, fiddling with the straps on his bag. "I really did think I saw a rat?"

_Boy-you-do-not-want-to-go-there-with-me_, Gerald's expression said.

"I don't know, Gerald, I guess I just zoned out," Arnold lied.

"Facing the back of the room?" Gerald asked, dubiously.

"You know how I get," Arnold said quickly.

Gerald shot him a disbelieving look and Arnold mentally begged his friend to just believe it.

"Yeah, alright," Gerald said slowly, some of the suspicion leaving his eyes. Arnold knew he still had his doubts but he also knew Gerald wouldn't push him on it, and hopefully something unfortunate would happen to someone soon that would get Gerald distracted enough to forget.

(Honestly, Arnold didn't know why so many people thought he was so _nice_. For one thing, no one who was genuinely nice could have survived being best friends with Gerald Johannsen for as long as he'd been. For another thing…he just wasn't.)

"Did you have any trouble with the math?" Gerald continued, walking now. Arnold fell into step beside him. His stomach rumbled and he pressed his hand against it, glad they had lunch next.

"Nah, this stuff is easy."

Gerald nodded and then quickly started relaying the latest news on the gossip mill. Apparently Rhonda and Nadine had officially become an out-and-open couple (to absolutely no one's surprise) and, also unsurprisingly, Tray Davis had been caught cheating on a test and had his parent's called in.

"Isn't this, like, the third time that's happened this semester?" Arnold wondered.

Gerald snorted. "That boy's issues could fill the Grand Canyon and still spill over," he said. "You've gotta admit, his perseverance is pretty impressive. If he actually focused all that energy into doing his school work himself…"

"He'd graduate a year early with Honors and a full ride to NYU," Arnold continued, snickering.

Gerald laughed with him and they continued down the hall. Just before they reached the doors leading to the stairwell, habit had Arnold glancing to the row of lockers on the opposite wall. He immediately located Helga, who was stuffing her books into the only locker not decorated with stickers, posters, and marker graffiti. He stopped walking.

"Arnold?"

Arnold bit his lip. Operation: find-out-what-shampoo-Helga-used was still very much ongoing, and Arnold_ had _finished the first act of _Macbeth;_ surely it was time to start working on some of the packet now? And they could do that at her place, and maybe this time he'd actually get a chance to go to her bathroom and cross that frustrating item off the list.

(Arnold pointedly did not think about how stalker-ish the whole thing was.)

_"Arnold_?" Gerald repeated, sounding annoyed.

"I've just got to talk to Helga for a second, be right back," Arnold muttered. He ignored Gerald's confused stuttering, took a deep breath, and stalked towards her. He could almost feel Gerald's gaze drilling holes into the back of his neck, but he ignored that, too.

"Helga?"

Helga turned towards him with a look of surprise, but it quickly fell away to be replaced with something Arnold couldn't be sure was more annoyance or reluctance. Heck, it was probably equally both.

"Yes, _Arnoldo_?"

Arnold cringed at the name. It was better than football head, but still not very flattering.

"Uh," he started, "I just wanted to know when we can meet up again to start on the first section of the project."

Helga gave him an unimpressed look. "Did you finish the first act?" she asked, not sounding like she really believed he did.

"Yes!" Arnold said, affronted.

Helga snorted. "Whatever. How about tomorrow evening, five-ish?"

Success!

"Sure, that's fine."

"See you at yours, then," she said before slamming her locker closed and walking away. A freshman in her path took one look at her, squeaked, and all but threw himself out of her way. Arnold, for his part, could do little else but stare after her, stunned.

"I don't envy you, man," Gerald said from behind him.

Arnold jumped and whirled around.

Gerald placed his hand on Arnold's arm and squeezed. "Would you like me to chaperone? Just in case she tries to kill you or something? Or at least bear witness so I can relay it all to the police later?"

Arnold shrugged his hand off with a scowl and stomped towards the stairs.

"What? I was just trying to help!" Gerald insisted, following. He slung his arm over Arnold's shoulders when he caught up and continued, "Honestly though, better you than me."

Arnold groaned. He just wanted this day to end already.

* * *

_**tbc.**_

* * *

**A/N: **While Helga is exceptionally smart, in the series her grades in certain subjects (primarily math) fluctuated. There was a reason for that in the show and there will be a reason for it in this fic, too.


	4. Like Mixing Water and Hot Oil

**CHAPTER FOUR**

* * *

The next day was marginally better. Arnold got a good night's rest, made it downstairs early enough to eat breakfast without having to rush through it, made it to school on time, and even got his temperamental combination lock open on the first try. The only downside, really, was that it was Wednesday, but Arnold was feeling magnanimous enough to overlook that particular drawback.

He walked into homeroom feeling pleased about the start of his day, and then he saw Helga scribbling in that eternal notebook of hers and his good mood came crashing down like a quail during game season.

Somehow, in between late night studying and basking in that morning's relative ease, Arnold had _actually_ forgotten that Helga was going to the boarding house. Arnold vaguely remembered almost tripping over a pair of dirty boxers in his haste to get dressed and blanched at the idea of Helga stepping into his attic and seeing what a teenage boy's bedroom _really _looked like. The drivel they showed on TV was only half of it.

Oh god.

Arnold made a bee-line for his seat and slumped into it. He resisted the urge to bang his head into the desk and tried to do something productive like _think things through _instead. He thought back to yesterday's conversation and tried to remember what time Helga had said she was going to come over. Five-ish? Arnold sat up and drummed his fingers against the desk. Five-ish. Okay. He could work with that. School let out at three and if he rushed home he'd still have at least an hour and a half to turn his bedroom into something resembling clean.

He worried for a moment that Helga might come early but quickly dismissed the idea. It was Helga; she was never _early_ for anything.

He had a traitorous thought that Helga enjoyed being an inconvenience even more than she loved pushing time constraints, but shook his head and dismissed that idea, too. If he continued to have thoughts like that he'd go crazy before the day was over and honestly, since this whole affair with Helga started, Arnold didn't think he had many marbles left to spare.

* * *

The day seemed to crawl by at the speed of a snail. By the time the last bell of the day chimed Arnold felt like he'd been trapped in the building for weeks instead of the handful of hours it had actually been. He'd spent half the class staring at the clock and urging it to tick faster and had all but leapt from his seat the moment the stupid thing finally settled on three o'clock. Arnold was the first to leave his classroom and was outside the school even before Tray Davis, whose shiny car gleamed at him from across the street.

He made it to the boarding house so quickly that his grandma, who was dusting the picture frames in the foyer, actually startled in surprise.

"Was there a half-day I didn't know about?" she asked, rubbing her chin.

"No, Grandma!" Arnold said, rushing past her. "Helga's coming over for a school project and my room's a mess!"

"The unibrow girl?" Arnold heard his grandma question as he turned a corner and ascended up the stairs.

"Not anymore!" Arnold called back.

Well, not _really_, anyway.

When he finally made it up to the attic and opened his door he gaped at the sheer amount of work cut out for him. He didn't even know where to start. How his room had managed to become _that _was baffling. While he wasn't a clean freak or anything he wasn't exactly messy, either. He took care of his things, picked up after himself, and at least tried to keep his space organized. The room he was looking at would have been better suited belonging to someone like _Harold_, not Arnold.

It was an eye-opener. If Arnold needed proof that the whole Helga-business was eating away at his brain cells it was this—and he didn't like it one bit.

Arnold allowed himself a brief moment to close his eyes in resignation. When he opened them again he was ready. He stumbled over all the crap on his floor, set his bag on his what must have been a bed underneath all those clothes, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work.

* * *

When five o'clock hit Arnold was just coming out of the shower. He dried himself off, brushed his teeth, and made his way up to a much cleaner attic. He wasted little time in shrugging out of his robe and getting dressed. Once the jeans and shirt he'd worn that day were pulled back on he slipped into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich and went back upstairs to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

At five-twenty Arnold was exasperated.

At five fifty-three he was annoyed.

He was more than ready to just call the whole thing a lost cause and finish up the rest of his homework when he heard the sharp creak of the lower door being pulled open and the heavy thud of someone climbing the stairs.

Helga didn't bother to knock; she simply slammed the door open, barged in, and tossed her bag onto his desk.

For a moment Arnold honestly didn't know whether to be impressed or irritated by her audacity. When she quirked a haughty eyebrow at him and showed him her back the latter quickly won out.

"You're late," he said flatly.

Helga opened her bag and began to pull out her things in response.

Knowing that an apology, or at the very least an explanation, was too much to hope for, Arnold let it go. Sort of. He _might _have been a bit vicious in opening his own bag and _probably _slammed his copy of _Macbeth _onto the bed with a little too much force.

"Passive-aggressive much?" Helga muttered.

Arnold thought she sounded amused. He spared her an unimpressed glare before he pulled out his assignment packet and dug into his bag for a pen. He then pretended not to watch as Helga unzipped and shrugged out of her coat, pulled off her boots, and set both on the floor to the side.

"Move over," she demanded. Arnold had to scoot towards the headboard to accommodate her.

Once she was settled in she quickly crossed her legs and dragged her book bag between them. Arnold tried very, very hard not to think about the fact that there was a _girl_ sitting on his _bed_. He tried even harder not to think about how that girl was _Helga_. It was petty of him, but Arnold couldn't help but resent her a little for looking so _comfortable_, like the entire thing wasn't completely out of the ordinary and she was right where she belonged.

That last thought made the skin at the base of his spine prickle uncomfortably. He swallowed and looked down.

"Your room's neater than I thought it would be," she said suddenly, pulling Arnold from his thoughts.

When Arnold looked up she was surveying the room, the blank expression Arnold had grown to hate plastered to her face like duct tape.

"Oh. Uh, I tidied up a bit before you came," he admitted. 'A bit' was a colossal understatement but Helga didn't need to know that.

"Hmm," was all she said before she turned her attention to her books again.

Arnold felt more than a little thrown off. For one thing, Helga didn't _do _small talk. Ever. For another thing, she was almost being…pleasant. Arnold shook his head. No, you couldn't actually call the way she was acting something as nice as _pleasant_, because that definitely wasn't what it was, but she wasn't being hostile or vicious either. She seemed to be almost…_detached_, the word suddenly came to him. That was it; detached.

It was something he'd noticed about her long before she'd bleeped on (and henceforth monopolized) his radar. The Helga he knew now was _quiet_. Not that the old Helga had been prone to incessant babbling or anything, but she'd always been outspoken and quick to shout and rave. The Helga sitting in front of him was definitely less noisy. She rarely spoke without first being spoken to—well, unless it was to threaten someone, but even then she resorted to quiet warnings and glowers that spoke more promises than words ever could.

It wasn't just her reticence either, Arnold realized. Whereas before she'd bully just for the sake of bullying, now it was as if she couldn't be bothered. Oh, she'd hassle someone if they annoyed her or had something she wanted, but that was it. When they were in elementary school it had been widely accepted that _no one_ was safe from her, ever (except, perhaps, Phoebe), but now it was generally understood that if you kept out of Helga's way she'd keep out of yours.

Arnold suddenly remembered the fuss she'd caused in the theater department their last year of Junior high when Helga had unexpectedly went and quit the drama club. Mrs. Stroke, the head of the department, had been in tears; literally—Arnold had seen them.

It had struck Arnold as odd before but now, in hindsight, he realized just how alarming it actually was. Helga _loved _theater, and her aspirations to be a playwright had always been well-known. Arnold could still remember that godawful play she'd directed in fourth grade (Arnold had never felt quite the same way about bananas since) and how totally in her element she'd been. She'd since helped direct and been the lead of numerous school plays, and though no one ever wanted to admit it, she'd always been good. _Really _good_. _

So why had she quit?

Detached. The word coiled ominously in his head. He looked up at Helga, who was peering intently at her phone, and the word flashed before his eyes like blinking lights. Detached. _Detached. _

Arnold wondered when exactly it had started and what on earth had been the cause of it.

Nothing good, he was sure.

Feeling uneasy, he looked down again.

Arnold tried to pay attention to his work, he really did, but he just couldn't concentrate. His thoughts, fragmented and scattered like scrabble tiles, were tumbling around his head faster than he could keep up with. He found himself cataloging all the other ways Helga had changed over the years, and all the other things she'd done that he might have dismissed as unimportant before but, in retrospect, probably weren't.

And then he suddenly found himself wondering which Helga he liked better, as if they were entirely different people, and he had to shake his head to clear the thoughts.

_The project_, Arnold reminded himself. _Stop thinking about Helga and focus on the project. _

He'd even managed to, for a while, until something else caught his attention. Helga, for some reason, had been excessively checking her phone all evening. Arnold kept catching her pulling the bulky device from her pocket—which admittedly wasn't odd in itself. No, it was her _face _when she checked her phone that gave Arnold pause. Every time she looked at it her expression seemed to get progressively worse until she was doing little else but scowling. Arnold couldn't count the number of times she'd flip open the vibrating device, glower at whatever she read on it, before viciously tapping what Arnold assumed to be a text response. She'd then snap the phone shut, stuff it into her pocket, and repeat the process a few minutes later.

Arnold, while curious, would have been more than happy to ignore the entire thing (for his own sake if nothing else) but Helga had made that rather difficult to do by unfairly taking her anger out on him. As the time passed she became increasingly irritable and caustic, and as a result his own temper had thinned to the extent that it was getting harder to reign it in.

Helga had just finished explaining to him the difference between theme, motif, and symbol in a patronizing tone that grated on Arnold's nerves and made him want to shove _Macbeth _down her throat when her phone buzzed for the nth time and she quickly flipped it open. As expected, her expression darkened.

"What are you looking at, football head?" she snapped without looking up.

"Nothing," Arnold snapped back.

The phone buzzed again and Arnold couldn't bite back his groan.

"Got something to say?" she demanded.

"_Yes,_"Arnold gritted out. "I can't work like this. Can you just ignore whoever it is and _focus _so we can finish this section already? I'd like to be done with this at some point today, Helga!"

Helga glared at him. "_No_, I can't. Don't blame _me_ for your lack of focus, stupid. I seriously doubt _you _would have gotten even a quarter of the section finished if it weren't for me, so butt out!"

Stung, Arnold smacked his book down and shot her the most vicious glare he could muster. "Don't flatter yourself, Helga. If going to the tutoring center every day after school meant I didn't have to put up with _you _I'd have done it, _gladly_."

For a split second Arnold thought he saw hurt flash across her eyes but it was gone in an instant—replaced by a glint that, if Arnold was being honest with himself, scared him a little—and he figured he must have imagined it.

"Fine, then!" Helga sneered, getting up. "You can just do the whole damn thing yourself!" She threw her things into her bag, snatched up her boots and coat, and slammed the door open and stormed downstairs.

Arnold heard his grandma's gasp of surprise and he cautiously stood up.

"I was about to ask if you'd like to stay for dinner, dearie," he heard his grandma say.

"No thank you," was Helga's clipped reply, and the sound of heavy footsteps continued to recede until only a tense silence was left. After a long, agonizing moment where Arnold could do little else but stare blankly at the open door, he finally managed to drag himself to said door and peer downstairs.

"I take it your little tête-à-tête didn't turn out so well, eh?" His grandma said in bemusement, staring in the direction Helga had stomped off to. She looked up at him with a curious smile.

Arnold grunted noncommittally.

"Well, nothing for it now. Come down for dinner, Arnold. Grandpa made tacos."

* * *

Grandpa did indeed make tacos, and Arnold scolded him for it.

"Your _blood pressure, _grandpa," He reminded him, eyeing the tray of artery-clogging, heart-attack inducing tacos his grandpa was holding away from Arnold.

"Eh," his grandpa said, "blood-pressure-smush-smesher. You only live once, ya know!"

Arnold sighed and took his seat without commenting. He wasn't in the mood to have that argument right then.

"So I hear that Helga girl was here," Grandpa started merrily, "and I meant that literally. In fact, I'm pretty sure the whole neighborhood heard. Feisty one, isn't she?"

Arnold groaned. "Grandpa, the last thing I want to talk about is _Helga _right now, alright?"

"Sorry," Grandpa said, not sounding very sorry at all. "You sure you don't want to talk about it though, Arnold? It might help."

Arnold glared at the colorful mess on his plate. "What is there to talk about? Helga was being insufferable, like always, and she turned into a complete monster—again, like always. Nothing new there."

The pause that followed was heavy, almost unbearably so. Arnold felt the frustration he had tried to suppress unfurl and snap like a taut rubber-band and before he knew what he was doing he was slamming his hands against the table and growling, "Ugh, I don't know what's _wrong _with her!" His hands curled into fists. "How can anyone be so frustrating! It's like one moment she's almost _normal _and the next she's back to her usual, horrible self and _ugh, _she just makes me so mad sometimes!"

He was breathing heavily by the end of his tirade and his palms stung from where he'd hit them against the table top. It took him a long moment to reign everything back in, and when he finally calmed down enough to feel almost normal again he apologized to his stunned grandparents.

"Sorry," he muttered, pushing his chair back. He winced as the legs skid noisily against the floor. "Sorry. I didn't mean to yell."

"It's quite alright, Arnold," Grandma said, rubbing her ears.

Arnold, mortified now that his outburst was over, stood up. "I...I'm not very hungry. I think I'm just going to do my homework and go to bed."

"We'll put your food away in case you decide to come down later," Grandpa assured him. "G'night, shortman."

"Good night, Arnold."

"Night grandpa, grandma," he muttered and stalked out of the dining room.

He completely missed the knowing glances his grandparents shot each other when his back was turned.

"Interesting," Grandpa said once Arnold was out of earshot. "I haven't seen the boy so riled up in years."

Grandma chuckled. "Poor Arnold. He's got his work cut out for him."

"Hardship builds character, as I always say."

"I'll show _you _character. Now eat your vegetables, brother mine. Don't think I didn't see you trying to sneak them onto your grandson's plate."

* * *

_You still alive?_, was the text message Arnold received when he was getting ready for bed.

Arnold stared at his cellphone, sighed, and sent a quick reply to Gerald. _Yes_, he typed back before shutting it off. He wasn't in the mood to attempt a conversation, especially not one that involved Helga in any way, shape, or form. He tossed the phone onto his sofa, ignored the clatter it made as it slid to the floor, and climbed into bed.

Arnold didn't even have to worry about the turmoil of the day keeping him awake. The moment his head hit the pillow the exhaustion of worrying and cleaning and fighting finally caught up with him and he fell asleep without realizing he'd ever closed his eyes.

He didn't dream.

* * *

**_tbc._**


	5. We're Allies In Math

**CHAPTER FIVE**

* * *

In the course of his relatively short life Arnold had found that things rarely, if ever, actually looked 'better in the morning'. A good night's rest didn't magically solve problems, solutions weren't discovered in the mystifying nuances of dreams, and the light of the sun didn't miraculously chase away the remnants of whatever emotions plagued you when you fell asleep.

What it did offer was clarity—an entirely new outlook on things—and that is what Arnold found he had when he'd woken up the next morning to a sliver of sunlight harsh against his eyes and an uncomfortable chill settled deep beneath his skin.

His morning routine was completed by rote. He was barely aware of his movements as he bathed, got dressed, and went through the rest of his daily ablutions, and yet somehow he managed to leave the boarding house appropriately attired, fed, and with both his school bag and an umbrella in hand.

His head was a maelstrom of thoughts which he tried to sort and put into context as he walked. It wasn't until Arnold was halfway to the school when everything seemed to slot into place and _click_, and his discovery was mind boggling enough to stop him dead in his tracks.

It started with the thought that Arnold, as far as he was aware, was the _only one_ who Helga voluntarily engaged with, and the realization of _that_ nearly knocked him off his feet.

Helga might have ignored everyone else's existence but she still talked to _Arnold_, didn't she? Alright, so it was often to tease him, demand something from him, or condescend over him, but at least she didn't treat him like he was so far beneath her he was almost invisible, like she treated everyone else.

Even her _glowers_ seemed to shift where Arnold was concerned. He'd always known that Helga glared at him more than anyone else but he had never thought to examine the difference, and there _was _a difference, Arnold was sure of it. Helga looked at everyone like they were the mud beneath her boots—irritating, though not important enough to bother with—but Arnold? She treated him like he was the most annoying person in existence and it was her duty to let him know it.

Arnold clenched the handle of his umbrella tightly and reminded himself that he was capable of walking and thinking at the same time. Once his feet were moving his thoughts immediately returned to the matter at hand.

Even Helga's willingness to help him on their English project was out of character for her, come to think of it. When did Helga G. Pataki, egotist extraordinaire, help anyone other than herself? But she _had _helped him; she'd lent him that book, and she'd tried to explain the various literature terminologies to him, and she was constantly going over and correcting his work…heck, she'd even gone as far as to reassure Arnold that he wasn't a complete dolt that one time!

The reason no one ever wanted to work with Helga wasn't just because she was, well, scary, but also because she never lifted a finger to help her partners out. She was well-known for ignoring the whole purpose of teamwork by dividing the workload and forcing her partners to fend for themselves.

And yet she hadn't done that with him, Arnold thought wondrously. No, from the start she'd been, dare he say it, actually cooperative. Helpful, even. Possibly even _nice _(or Helga's version of nice, anyway).

But what did that _mean_? And more importantly, why_ him_?

The sudden shift from drizzle to downpour snapped Arnold out of his head and made him realize that he'd stopped again. He thought about what he must look like standing in the middle of the street for no apparent reason and prompted himself forward. His trainers squelched against the pavement and the bottom of his jeans were entirely soaked-through, but he found himself not caring very much. Not when he had this new puzzle to deal with—to solve.

Arnold needed answers, and the thought that he might have alienated the one person who actually had them made his stomach churn.

He sighed and stared glumly at the torrent that was blurring the city around him and washing out its ever present sounds. 'Ugly outside' didn't even cut it; he could barely see three feet in front of him, the rain was that thick, and the overwhelming metallic smell that cleaved to the air almost made him feel sick.

He looked down at his mud-caked shoes dejectedly. What was he going to do now?

* * *

An opportunity presented itself during fourth period with the sudden appearance of Ms. Chambers, the newest sub to grace the halls of Hillwood High.

"Mr. Santiago is out with the flu," was the first thing she said when she entered the class, "and for goodness sake don't sound so excited, it's _unseemly_. It's also unnecessary since he left more than enough work for you to do while he's gone. Now quit groaning and listen up," she slapped a bulging manila folder onto the desk, "Mr. Santiago compiled a list of exercises covering everything you've done this past week. It's a bit long—quiet!—which is why he's given you permission to pair up with someone if you choose to. But before we get into that, roll call."

Arnold immediately perked up, gears turning.

She went through the list of names quickly, only pausing to stumble over Viktor's impossible six-syllable-Russian-surname and, typically, Arnold's.

"The text is smudged," she peered at the page. "Is there an Arnold here?"

"Here," Arnold raised his hand.

She glanced at him and nodded, and he let his arm fall back to the desk.

"The assignment is simple: answer the questions, show your work, and hand it in by the end of class. Failure to do so will result in a zero for the day and a mandatory make-up assignment that, believe me, makes this one look like preschool work. As I mentioned you can choose someone—note the singular—to work with but do keep in mind that you will have to fill out your own packets and I _will _be watching to make sure no one person is shouldering all the work. Any questions? No? Good. You with the purple shirt, help pass this around."

Arnold flipped his packet open the moment it landed on his desk. The majority of the problems were related to slopes in some way, but there were a few other random things thrown in there: inequalities, exponents, radicals, polynomials. Easy stuff. Arnold was sure he'd be able to finish the work by himself and with time to spare, but… this was an opportunity he doubted he was going to get again.

After warring with himself he eventually decided that yes, he was actually going to do this, and stood up. He glanced over at Gerald, who was looking his way expectantly, and shook his head. Gerald frowned and narrowed his eyes and Arnold quirked his lips in apology before he turned and made his way to the back of the room.

He was _not_ looking forward to the questions Gerald was going to bombard him with once the class was over.

Helga was wearing jeans that day, was the first thing Arnold noticed; skinny jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with no sweater in sight. Her hair was pulled back in its customary ponytail and for once she was without the gold chain that always hung around her neck.

The second thing Arnold noticed was that she was chewing on the cap of her pen viciously, like it was somehow its fault she had to put it to work.

The last thing he noticed was that she had deep bruises beneath her eyes that heavily indicated a lack of sleep.

The thought that their argument—and what Arnold had said in the heat of it—had been the cause of it flashed through his mind but he quickly canned the idea. As if. Helga was hardly the type of person who'd be kept awake at night by a flimsy insult like that. People had called her worse things and she'd never so much as batted an eyelash. And besides, Arnold thought, she'd said some pretty awful things to him, too. In fact, Helga _always _said awful things to him. Why should he care if she certainly didn't seem to?

Arnold frowned, suddenly remembering the expression he'd seen on her face that he'd convinced himself had been a figment of his imagination. What if it hadn't been—no. He _must_ have imagined it. It was Helga, for heck's sake. Arnold was willing to admit that she wasn't an emotionless robot but that didn't mean he thought her capable of, well, _that_. It didn't make sense that she'd lose sleep over something said by someone whom she obviously considered to be a complete moron, if what she'd said last night was anything to go by.

But what had Arnold said exactly, though? Something about him doing anything if it meant not having to put up with her?

Arnold winced, remembering. Honestly, he'd even surprised himself with that one. Arnold rarely, if ever, said things with the intent of hurting someone else. He might not have have been the saint some people thought he was but he wasn't cruel.

Then why had he said it?

That was easy enough to answer: because Helga G. Pataki got under his skin like no one else could ever dream to, and had ways of pushing buttons he didn't even know he had.

Arnold felt guilt churn in his stomach and bit back a groan. Why did he have to be so _nice_? If Gerald had been in Arnold's position he definitely wouldn't have cared. In fact, he'd probably insist he was justified. And Arnold couldn't argue with that, exactly, but…

But he _wasn't_ Gerald, and he didn't really feel comfortable knowing that something he'd said caused someone pain, even if that someone was the one person who lived to make his life miserable.

Arnold sighed. He'd been standing in the middle of the aisle for who knew how long and figured it would probably be a good idea to move already. Not that anyone was paying him any attention—a quick glance at the sub revealed that she was distracted by the book her nose was buried in (and thus _not _making rounds like she'd threatened to) and everyone else, well, most of them were people he'd grown up with. People who _knew _him. Arnold staring into space while completely lost in thought was practically his trademark.

Arnold looked at Helga and at once realized his mistake. How could he have forgotten? If there was one person who'd always pay attention to him when he least wanted it, it was her.

Had it been any other day Arnold was sure she would have mocked him for zoning out. Now she just stared at him, expression wiped clean. That, more than anything, made Arnold realize that there was a huge possibility he'd been very, very wrong in his assessment of her last night. If she'd only been angry at him she would have glared, and taunted, and probably humiliated him in front of everyone. The lack of expression, though? That was her trying to hide whatever it was she felt, and since Helga had no problem expressing anger it really could have only been one thing.

The guilt that had started as a churning in his stomach quickly grew to a tightening in his chest.

Arnold warily closed the difference between them, unsure now. An angry Helga was an intimidating one, but a (possibly) hurt one? Arnold didn't know what to expect, but he had a feeling it wasn't going to be pleasant.

"Helga?" Arnold said tentatively, drawing up close so his legs hit the table and his shadow fell over her. The sudden lack of light made the shadows under her eyes even more pronounced. It also emphasized the sharpness of her cheekbones and dimmed the color of her eyes.

She looked painfully thin sitting there, caught in his shadow.

Helga, for her part, hadn't uttered a word. She continued to stare up at him with eyes that were impossible to read, despite Arnold's best efforts.

It was really, really unnerving.

"Listen, I…" He trailed off, not really knowing where to start. Should he begin with the suggestion of partnering up? Should he open with an apology? Arnold considered his options before frowning at his indecisiveness and deciding to just do whatever felt right. And apparently that was stealing a chair from the empty desk in front of them, placing it next to Helga, and dropping into it.

Well, no time like the present.

"I'm sorry, alright?" Arnold said lowly, leaning in so no one could overhear.

Helga's eyebrows rose in surprise before her expression cleared again. Arnold took it as a good sign (hopefully, if he continued to throw her off, she'd be too distracted to do something terrible like embarrass him in front of everyone) and continued. "What I said last night," her face darkened but he pushed on, "wasn't true. I was just mad." Mad. Ha, talk about understatement.

Helga didn't interrupt him so he took it as his cue to go on.

"Thing is, you were right. I probably wouldn't be as far as I am now if you haven't been helping me. You could have said it more _nicely_," Arnold stressed, unwilling to back down on that part, "but you weren't exactly lying and either way, I shouldn't have said what I did. It was mean, and untrue, and I'm sorry." And it _was _untrue, when Arnold thought about it. Being in close proximity with Helga was always stressful because you never knew quite where you stood with her (only that it wasn't at a very good place) and she was a bit of a minefield in that sometimes the strangest, most innocuous of things set her off. But…she _had _been helpful, and if not exactly patient, at least tolerant of his relative slowness.

She also didn't babble endlessly, which Arnold rather appreciated. And while she wasn't what anyone in their right mind would call _nice_ she was…honest. Painfully so, but still. You never had to second-guess yourself when you were with her because she wouldn't hesitate to tell you if you were doing something wrong. Or something stupid. Or being annoying. Sure, it was bruising to the ego, but it went a long way in soothing shot nerves.

She was also fascinating to observe, but that was another thing entirely.

"So…yeah. Sorry," Arnold repeated lamely, wishing she'd just _do _something already. Even yelling would be better than the whole blank-staring thing.

Long, excruciating minutes passed (oh alright, maybe two) until Helga finally sighed gustily, rolled her eyes, and relaxed in her chair. "Whatever, football head. I didn't care anyway. You can go now."

Arnold gaped at her.

Really, he shouldn't have been surprised. What did he expect? A heartfelt apology? Tearful forgiveness? Warm gratitude?

Still, anything other than 'whatever, I don't care, buh-bye now' would have been nice.

"Is that all you've got to say?" Arnold demanded.

Helga crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. "What else is there _to _say?"

"Oh, I don't know," Arnold said sarcastically, "how about 'thanks for the apology, Arnold' or 'I'm sorry too, Arnold'?"

"What! What have _I _got to be sorry for?"

Arnold grit his teeth at her, very much regretting having bothered. "Maybe for calling me _stupid_?"

"You just said I wasn't lying!"

"Not about me needing the help, no, but you still insulted me, Helga!"

"Yeah, well—"

"Is there a problem here?"

Arnold and Helga whipped their heads up at the intruder—uh, sub—who was staring down at them with narrowed eyes and pursed lips.

"Uh, we were discussing the best method of solving one of the problems?" Arnold tried.

Ms. Chambers glanced pointedly at their unsoiled papers and lifted a brow.

"We're still on the first one?"

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, and Arnold flushed and ducked his head. He heard Helga snort beside him and he turned to glare at her. Her head was turned so she didn't see him, but Arnold noticed the corner of her mouth twitch like she was suppressing a smile (always at his expense) and he turned away again, not quite as angry anymore.

"There are only thirty minutes remaining of the class," Ms. Chambers huffed, "and I suggest the two of you cease _discussing _and get to the actual _doing_." She tapped her watch, gave them a long look, and stalked away.

"Ugh," Arnold groaned and burrowed his face in the crook of his arms.

"You are a _terrible _liar," Helga told him. "And I mean _horrifically _terrible. I got second-hand embarrassment just from watching that."

"Thanks ever so much for your opinion, Helga."

She snorted again.

"C'mon," Arnold sighed, sitting up, "let's finish this stupid thing already." He caught sight of Helga's expression and added quickly, "I'm already here, so might as well. Besides, we're already way behind and two is better than one and all…"

"Alright, alright, just shut up already," Helga groaned, flipping her packet open. She looked at it for a moment, hesitated, and shot Arnold a look he didn't quite know how to decipher.

Arnold, to his credit, kept his face perfectly neutral. He slid his paper closer, pulled out a pen, and got to work. He considered offering his help but he didn't think Helga would appreciate that very much, and Arnold liked his face right where it was, thanks.

He was in the process of finishing up the sixth question when he heard it. It was said so softly that he'd almost thought he'd imagined it, but when he glanced sideways Helga was looking purposefully away, jaw clenched tight.

_I need help,_ she'd whispered.

Arnold had no idea why, but the words made his chest constrict uncomfortably.

Knowing she wouldn't appreciate being coddled, Arnold slid her paper towards him without a word. He wrote down the two formulas they'd be predominantly using at the top of the page next to where she'd written her name in neat, cursive script.

"I know you're familiar with them already," Arnold said quietly, "but I need to see what steps you're taking to solve this so I can see what needs correcting."

Seconds ticked by. Helga eventually tore her gaze away from the wall she'd been staring at and trained them on the paper instead. Her knuckles were white from where she gripped her pen—it was one of those new erasable ones, he noted absently—and she quickly began trying to solve it.

Arnold saw the mistake immediately, but he let her try to work it out for herself. She made it as far as she could go before she huffed angrily and dropped the pen. She averted her eyes again.

"You've got the idea," Arnold said, careful not to sound patronizing, "and you're applying the formulas properly. That's not the problem."

"Then what is it, _football head_?" She bit out.

Arnold ignored the insult. "You're not applying other relevant principles. Such as right here," he pointed to the first step, "you got this right, but you forgot to subtract these exponents which is why you got the next step wrong."

Helga frowned and peered down at the numbers. "What? Why? They're clearly being divided."

"Well, you always subtract the exponents when you divide their whole numbers."

"When did we cover this?" Helga asked incredulously.

Arnold blinked at her. "Um. Last year?"

Helga's frown deepened to a scowl. "And these?" she asked, gesturing to the exponents in opposite parentheses. "Let me guess—add 'em?"

"That's right," he said, then went on to point out the other rule-of-thumbs she'd apparently missed out on learning in math comp. It turned out to be quite a lot (and Arnold had to frequently bite down on his urge to ask what the heck she'd been doing all of freshman year), but she was an irritatingly quick study and had a knack for instantly grasping the concept of the math as long as she knew the small stuff.

They managed to finish the first segment astonishingly fast, and then hit another roadblock. The last page was a review of different sets of problems and Arnold had to not only teach Helga entirely new rules, but he also had to show her their various combinations and functions, how and why they were connected (if they were), when they were applicable (and more frustrating was when they weren't), and so on. Arnold was in the middle of instructing her on the various ways to either solve or factor (or occasionally do both) different types of polynomials when the bell rang, startling them both.

As the sub called for everyone's assignments Arnold hastily transferred the remainder of the work from Helga's packet to his own before gathering his things. Helga did the same, though at a much slower pace.

"If you'd like," Arnold said without thinking, "we could finish getting you caught up some other time." He didn't fully register his own words until Helga turned and narrowed her eyes at him. Arnold panicked. "If you'd like! I mean, you don't _have _to or anything, but…I'm offering, and I don't mind and..."

Helga regarded him intently for a long moment, and Arnold had to wonder just how much satisfaction she took from making people squirm. If he had to guess, it was probably a lot.

Eventually Helga slid her gaze to the side and nodded once. She tucked a a wayward curl behind her ear before she said evenly, "I guess. If I've got nothing else to do." She paused and added, "I'm not owing you anything for it, though. _You _made the offer, not me."

It took epic amounts of restraint on Arnold's part to keep from rolling his eyes.

"I wouldn't dream to suggest such a thing, Helga," he retorted sarcastically, hoisting up his bag. The warning bell rang but he ignored it; he had lunch next.

"And maybe…" Arnold peered up at her, "we can meet up and work on our project again? Since we didn't get to finish the section yesterday and all." Arnold held his breath.

Helga's sigh was so explosive her bangs fluttered. "_Fine_," she muttered, like agreeing was such a hardship for her and Arnold should be grateful. "No one will be home on Thursday so you can come by then."

Arnold momentarily wondered why having an empty house was important before he got distracted by the thought of finally being able to cross _something _off his list, and maybe get a few of his seemingly endless questions answered, too.

"Cool. What time?"

"Right after school," Helga drawled.

"Okay. Then we should probably, uh, walk to yours together?"

"_Fine, _whatever. Just go away now."

Arnold sighed. "Bye, Helga."

He'd barely taken three steps when he heard her snap, "Hey, football head!"

Arnold made to turn around and call her out on her ridiculousness, but the complaint died in his throat when he realized she was directly behind him, standing so close he could feel her breath ghost against the shell of his ear.

"Thanks," she muttered.

Arnold shivered.

He had no time to react (though whether that was a stroke of good luck, or bad, he didn't know) before Helga shoved him into a row of desks and barked, "Watch where you're going, would ya?"

He struggled to right himself as she stomped out of the classroom. Arnold stared after her in disbelief until the tip of her ponytail disappeared behind the door frame, then shook his head and came to the indisputable conclusion that he was never, ever going to understand Helga G. Pataki for as long as he lived.

The thought made him oddly excited.

Arnold immediately thought back to her whispered thanks and reached up to brush his fingers against his still-warm ear. It tingled in memory. He felt something warm and overwhelming and utterly unfathomable bloom in his chest and he had to duck his head to hide his smile.

* * *

Gerald, followed by a wide-eyed Sid, cornered him the moment he stepped outside the classroom. Arnold took in their twin expressions of disbelief and he felt his good mood promptly vanish.

"What the heck was _that _about, Arnold?" Gerald demanded.

"Why did you partner up with _Helga Pataki_?" Sid asked, wrangling his hands.

Arnold frowned. "Does it matter?"

"Uh, _yeah_!" they said in unison.

Arnold huffed and started down the hall, knowing they were following. In fact, he could practically feel them at his heels. "Listen, it's no big deal. I had a question about that English project we're working on, we couldn't agree on something, and we wasted so much time arguing about it that we figured we might as well just finish the work together. Like I said, no big deal." And Helga had accused him of being a terrible liar. Ha.

Gerald cut in front of him and started walking backwards.

"You're going to fall," Arnold said flatly.

Gerald waved his concern away. "You've been spending an awful lot of time with Helga lately, man."

Arnold, caught between panic and annoyance, said, "What part of _we're working on a project together _do you not comprehend?"

"I don't know, Arnold," Sid said nervously. "You're acting awfully defensive."

"I concur," Gerald said, eyeing him suspiciously

Arnold decided then and there to take a leaf out of Helga's book and treat the conversation like it was beneath him (only, y'know, minus the violence).

"Think what you'd like," he said dismissively. He glared at the two of them, moved around Gerald, and sped ahead. He fell into the crowd of students swarming down the stairs and sighed in relief that he'd managed to escape the interrogation.

Or so he'd thought.

"If you were trying to convince us—" Sid called loudly after him.

"—You failed!" Gerald continued, even louder.

In hindsight they were probably right, but for the time being he was too annoyed to care. Arnold ignored them, hunched his shoulders, and allowed himself to get swept up by the crowd.

* * *

_**tbc.**_

* * *

**A/N: **Just to remind everyone, this story is going to have a very, very slow A/H build. _MorTay3_, you hit the nail right on the head. These two need to learn to get along before anything else can happen between them and the process isn't going to be easy. I also need to warn you guys that Helga's home life is definitely worse than it's portrayed in the cartoon. I won't elaborate on the reasons why (spoilers!) but I will assure you all that she's not being physically abused in any way.


	6. Shaken, Not Stirred

**CHAPTER SIX**

* * *

Arnold was in the process of haphazardly stuffing his worksheets into a battered folder when Mr. Cooper called his name and asked him to stay behind after class. He heard Helga snort beside him but when he turned to look at her she was already walking away. Arnold exchanged glances with Gerald who shrugged, looking just as perplexed.

"I'll see you after eighth then," said Gerald, yawning. "Are you still coming to Stinky's?"

"Can't. I'm meeting up with Helga again, remember?"

"Uh-huh," Gerald said flatly. "I remember."

Arnold raised his hand. "Don't start, Gerald."

"I'm not saying anything."

Arnold bit back a retort that Gerald didn't _need _to say anything; his expression was doing the talking for him.

"Leave it," Arnold said. "Now go—you're gonna be late."

"Going, going," Gerald muttered with a salute.

Arnold quickly packed up the rest of his things and met Mr. Cooper at his desk. Mr. Cooper waited until the rest of the room cleared out before he stood and motioned Arnold closer to him with a wave of his hand. Arnold took several cautious steps forward.

"Arnold," he started.

Arnold blinked when he didn't say anything more. "Uh, yes Mr. Cooper?"

His English teacher peered down at him. "I just wanted to know how things are progressing with your project. You haven't been having any trouble with it, have you?"

Arnold stared at him blankly for a moment, wondering why he of all people had been singled out.

It took a moment for it to click. This wasn't about _him._ This was about_ Helga. _

Arnold stamped down hard on the his irritation and reminded himself that Mr. Cooper wasn't exactly wrong in his approach. Helga's partners tended to beg him pretty early on to be transferred, and probably approached him regularly to complain. If Arnold had to guess, he reckoned he was one of the few, if not the only one, who _hadn't _asked for alternative arrangements yet. Considering Helga's history Mr. Cooper was definitely justified in his concern. It didn't mean Arnold found it any less _wrong_, though.

"Everything is going great, Mr. Cooper," Arnold said.

Alright, so maybe _great_ was a bit of an exaggeration, but only just. And compared to Arnold's initial expectations—which consisted of him shouldering his half of the work by himself, getting constantly chewed out by Helga for being stupid, failing the project and consequently the class, all to end in him being laughed out of school and having to go to therapy for the rest of his life to deal with the inevitable self-esteem issues—well, it actually was kind of great, in a pathetically optimistic and convoluted way.

And as Arnold had yet to either cry or push Helga into traffic, as far as he was concerned things were going pretty well.

Mr. Cooper eyed him rather dubiously. "Are you sure, Arnold? If things aren't…_going well_," he stressed the words, "you can tell me, alright? I'll help as much as I can."

Arnold resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Really, Mr. Cooper, everything's fine. Helga and I are working well together," he insisted.

To Arnold's surprise, Mr. Cooper looked genuinely worried by this. He clasped Arnold's shoulder with a long, thin hand and pressed, "Arnold…are you absolutely sure you don't have anything to tell me? Anything at all? Any complaints about the..._work_?" The air quotes around the word were almost palpable.

Exasperated, Arnold shook his head.

Mr. Cooper's expression abruptly changed. He dropped his hand, licked his lips, and said in a tone that made Arnold wonder if the reason he'd became a teacher was because his aspirations of being an actor had fallen through, "My god. It's all my fault. I chose you because you've always been more level-headed than your peers and I honestly thought you'd be able to handle it, but now look at you…" he trailed off, eyes perturbed.

Arnold was getting the uncomfortable feeling that Mr. Cooper thought he was suffering from some sort of Stockholm Syndrome. Surely the teacher didn't think Helga was _that _bad?

Arnold was suddenly almost desperate to know just what Helga's previous partners had told the man since he almost appeared to be traumatized on their behalf.

His amusement at the idea of Helga causing second-hand trauma was dealt a swift death by Mr. Cooper's persistence, and Arnold's desire to slam his head into the blackboard until the world started making sense again increased the longer Mr. Cooper tried to coax a confession out of him (though he refrained, in large part due to his conviction that Mr. Cooper would somehow find cause to blame Helga for that, too). When it became clear that no, Arnold wasn't going to change his mind, because yes, he was actually quite satisfied with their current arrangement, Mr. Cooper finally, albeit reluctantly, let Arnold go—though not before hinting that his office was always open to him, should he ever need it.

Arnold thought the man should really lay off reading Harry Potter for a while.

It wasn't until Arnold was walking into his last class of the day, Introductory Psychology, that he flipped the late pass he'd been given over and realized there was something scrawled there. It was a telephone number, presumably Mr. Cooper's, with a short note that read: _remember_, _it's never too late. _

Too late for what?

To run screaming, Arnold supposed with a snort.

He passed the note to Mr. Chopra, took a seat in the back of the class, and finally gave into the urge to hit his head against his desk. Hard. It got him curious looks from some of his peers but Arnold ignored them in favor of trying to bash that frustrating conversation from his head.

It was, after all, ten minutes of his life that he'd never get back.

* * *

It wasn't until the last bell rang and he was waving goodbye to Gerald that Arnold realized he and Helga hadn't specified where to meet up, so the sight of her standing in front of the school, back pressed against the building and arms folded, made him sigh in relief.

The moment she caught sight of him she pushed against the wall and started down the block, and Arnold had to run to catch up to her quick stride.

Neither of them spoke. Arnold didn't know what was going on in her head but for his part he was feeling deeply conflicted. His thoughts kept returning to the conversation he'd had with Mr. Cooper and Arnold wondered whether or not he should tell her. If Arnold had been in her shoes he thought he would want to know, but Helga was just so…unpredictable. Self-preservation made Arnold feel reluctant to tell her the truth, but lying was also out of the question. For one thing he had nothing to gain from it (except, perhaps, all his body parts intact), and for another thing he just didn't want to.

_What to do, what to do_, he thought, staring up at the sky. He had to squint his eyes against the glare of the sun, which was startling bright and visible for late November. If not for the chill that nipped his skin and the threadbare appearance of the trees Arnold would have been hard pressed to believe it was already fall. Even the sky was in on the façade—gone was its ever present tint of gray and the frothy wisps of beige and in their place was a sky the color of the ocean with large, fluffy clouds that drifted listlessly by. It was nothing short of a summer's sky and a part of Arnold was angry at Mr. Cooper for ruining one of the nicest days they'd had in weeks. Instead of being able to enjoy the walk his thoughts kept returning to all the horrible things Mr. Cooper had insinuated and whether or not it was right to let Helga know.

Arnold came to a decision when they hit the halfway point of their journey.

He bit his lip and peered up at Helga, who was staring ahead with a vacant expression, and squared his shoulders.

"Listen, Helga—"

"If this is about the conversation you had with Mr. Cooper, don't bother," Helga interrupted briskly.

Arnold was so startled he almost tripped over his own feet. He fumbled, got himself upright, and gaped. "But, how did you…?"

She rolled her eyes. "Please. That old fart's been shooting you worried looks all week. It didn't take rocket science to connect the dots."

So that explained the noise Helga had made earlier when Mr. Cooper had told Arnold to stay behind. Arnold gazed up at her wondrously. It never failed to amaze him just how observant she could be.

"So what did he tell you?" Helga continued, shooting him a curious look.

Arnold hesitated. He thought about deflecting the question but it dawned on him that Helga might take it as being patronized and the last thing Arnold wanted at that point was to antagonize her. Reluctant to shatter the miraculously non-hostile conversation they were having, Arnold relented. "He, uh, kept asking me if I needed help because the _work_," he made air-quotes, "was too difficult."

"…And?" Helga prompted.

Arnold coughed and said sheepishly, "He might have insinuated that the only reason I hadn't asked for a new partner was because you gave me Stockholm syndrome."

There was a long beat of silence where Arnold feared he might have really upset her. His assessment seemed even more accurate when he realized she was _shaking_. Arnold felt dread pool in the pit of his stomach and cursed his lack of foresight. He turned around, intent on reassuring Helga that Mr. Cooper was just being paranoid and Arnold hadn't listened to a word he'd said, not really, when the sight of her stopped him short.

Helga was biting her lip aggressively and staring at the ground. The corners of her lips were curved in what Arnold just knew was a smile, and her eyes were open wide.

"Helga…?" Arnold said, uncertainly.

Like a dam breaking, Helga suddenly threw her head back and laughed. _Laughed_. She clutched her sides as if to keep herself upright and guffawed so loudly people were actually stopping to stare. Not that Arnold cared—he was too fascinated by the sight of her actually _laughing_. There were even honest-to-gosh tears gathered at the corner of her eyes. Helga wheezed, slapped her knees, and made a bold attempt to gather herself. She'd been making commendable progress until she glanced at Arnold, and whatever saw when she looked at him made her start up all over again.

Arnold felt his lips twitch. _She's pretty like this_, he thought, observing her intently as if he could brand the current sight of her into his memory to be conjured up later. The bizarreness of the sudden thought was lost in his own amusement at the situation, awe at what he was actually witnessing, and pride that _he'd _been the one to cause it, no matter how indirect and small his contribution had been.

"Oh man," Helga gasped, wiping her eyes. She straightened and pressed a hand against her stomach as if it hurt. "_Oh man. _I haven't laughed like that in ages. _Stockholm syndrome_," she repeated, snickering. "Oh, that's too much." She shook her head, momentarily glanced at Arnold with amusement sparkling in her eyes, and started walking again.

Arnold fell into step beside her, still reeling. He discretely pinched himself to make sure he wasn't actually dreaming—or daydreaming, you could never tell with him—and shook his head when the injured area stung.

"You're not bothered by it?" Arnold blurted. He immediately wanted to kick himself for being such a killjoy.

He was relieved when Helga only waved her hand airily. "That would mean I actually cared, and believe me, I don't."

And that was end of their conversation. They walked the rest of the way to Helga's building in silence, though it was certainly more comfortable than it had been before. Arnold's head was still swimming with numerous thoughts but he found that he didn't mind it so much this time. Thinking about Helga actually _cracking up _over something _he'd _said was definitely a much better pastime than musing over the weather. And anyway, the sun just didn't seem as bright anymore. He peered up at the sky expecting to see it hidden behind clouds and was surprised when he had to look away from the onslaught of its glare. That was strange, but he didn't waste energy contemplating it. There were more interesting things to think about, such as the way the corner of Helga's eyes crinkled when she laughed and the fact that another item had been added to his list, one that Arnold was eager to cross off as soon as possible.

_Nine: figure out how to evoke that same response again. _

He was looking forward to it.

So lost in thought was he that he hadn't even realized they'd reached their destination until he was brought out of his musings by the jangle of keys and the sound of groaning metal. Arnold blinked and followed Helga into the building, then down the hall to where her apartment was.

"Food first, homework later," Helga was saying as she pushed open the door.

Arnold was about to verbalize his agreement when he stepped right into Helga's back and had to grip her arm to keep from falling.

"Helga?" He started, but was cut off by the sound of a heavy thud and a woman's raspy voice.

"Olga dear, is that you?" the voice said.

Arnold peered out from behind Helga to see who was speaking and his eyes widened at the sight of the only other person in the room.

Helga's mom—Miriam, he thought her name was—was spread out on the couch, her head flat against one plush arm. She was wearing only a bathrobe and her hair was a wreck on top her head, but that wasn't what stood out. No, it was the empty bottle of liquor on the coffee table, and the glass she was waving in her hand, and the dazed look on her face; a heavy indicator that she was the furthest thing from sober.

"Oh, hiii Olga," she slurred, and the contents of her glass spilled over the rim and splashed her in the face. She blinked, then broke out into giggles. "B-be a good dear and pour mommy ano-another g-glass, would you? I can't see a thiiiiiing," she laughed again, then threw one arm over her eyes, which Arnold could see even from that distance were bloodshot and swallowed by bags.

Arnold had a sickening thought that bags like that didn't happen overnight.

"Olga, Olga, the r-room Olga, it's _spinning_," she groaned. "Ohh, I d-don't feeeeel g-gooood, Oh-nooo…"

Arnold was being pulled from the apartment before he could witness Mrs. Pataki get sick, but he heard it clearly, even with the solid metal of the door to act as a buffer.

The sound of retching and Mrs. Pataki's desperate cries for '_Olga, Olga,_' made Arnold's stomach roll. He didn't know what to do. A part of him insisted that he should go back in there and help Helga's mom, but a much larger part wanted nothing more than to keep that door firmly between them.

And Helga…

Arnold glanced up at her and felt his chest constrict. Helga's face was ashen, and she was staring at the door like she didn't know what to do. Arnold wondered if that was because this wasn't something she had to deal with often, or because he was there.

He wished with all his heart that it was the first one.

"Helga…" he trailed off, not knowing what to say. The tension that clung to the air was suffocating, so thick Arnold could almost feel it pressing down on him. He tried to clear his throat but the sensation wouldn't go away. If anything, it seemed to get worse.

"You should go," Helga rasped, not looking at him. Her shoulders were stiff and her face had tightened into something Arnold couldn't begin to name. Any remnant of the amusement she'd felt earlier was gone, wiped clean like it had never been there and replaced by something that looked almost haunted. Arnold felt almost glad he couldn't see her eyes because he had a feeling that whatever he'd see there would be fodder for nightmares he had little doubt would come.

"Helg—"

"You need to go," she cut him off, sounding more like herself that time. "_Now_."

Arnold look at her for a long moment. He wanted to stay—though to do what, he didn't know. He just knew that he didn't want to leave Helga by herself…not to what awaited her behind that door. But…Arnold was so far out of his depth he couldn't imagine what kind of help he'd be. _No_, he thought, watching Helga struggle to reign in her emotions. He'd probably do more harm than good by trying to stay.

It was a…family matter, he thought with a cringe, and Helga and he were hardly friends. It was bad enough he had _seen _(and Arnold didn't want to think about the repercussions of that just yet). Trying to get involved in what was clearly none of his business was just asking for trouble.

Arnold reluctantly nodded and turned to leave. He didn't bother saying goodbye; he doubted Helga wanted anything more from him at the moment than for him to be as far away from her, from _that_, as possible.

When Arnold stepped outside it was to a world that was considerably colder and darker. The sun had apparently decided it had done its good deed for the day and was taking refuge behind noticeably dustier clouds. The moroseness of the weather worsened Arnold's already bleak mood, and he was frowning and slouching into himself before he'd even made it down the stoop. When a few moments later light flashed against the sky and the rumbling of thunder boomed in the distance, Arnold almost wanted to laugh at the stark turn his day had taken.

He would have if he thought he'd be capable of it.

He made the trek home in a daze. It was as if his thoughts had been left behind in that apartment, rooted to the floor in the way his feet had once been; only, whereas his feet had eventually fled his thoughts had not. To say that he had an overwhelming amount of questions would be an understatement and yet a part of Arnold, a part that he was ashamed to admit was far from small, was afraid of the answers.

Arnold had never considered himself to be a coward, but in that moment he certainty felt like one.

It was pouring by the time he made it to Sunset Arms. His grandpa caught him in the foyer, took note of his drenched clothes and chattering teeth, and ushered him up the stairs and into the bathroom, taking Arnold's coat and bag as they went.

Arnold stripped out of his wet clothes and climbed into the shower, turning it up as high as it would go. He'd bathed that morning and had hardly done anything to warrant feeling dirty, and yet somehow he did. He scrubbed his skin until it was pink and sore and let the water wash everything, including his tremulous thoughts, away. He only felt marginally better when he shut the water off and stepped out.

Arnold wrapped a towel around his waist, wiped away the fog that coated the mirror, and stared at his reflection.

He looked _awful_.

Though not nearly as awful as Mrs. Pataki had looked.

Or Helga, for that matter.

Arnold sighed. He rubbed his cheeks to get more color in them and blew his fringe away from his eyes. Walking around like a zombie wasn't going to achieve anything, and neither was feeling guilty about abandoning Helga and not doing anything to help.

There was nothing he _could _do, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time. He rather thought he was beginning to sound like a broken record.

The shift in air temperature when he left the bathroom was shocking and he rushed to his room to put on as many layers as he could get away with. He didn't spare a thought for homework, or the biology quiz he had tomorrow, or to the hunger cramping his stomach. He just crawled into bed, burrowed under the his freshly cleaned duvet, and stared up at the ceiling skylight. The rain pelted against the glass in a rhythmic sound he usually considered soothing, but now found distracting. He closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep, hoping some rest would chase away a bit of the dark cloud that seemed to be hovering above his head, but every time he came close to drifting off flashes of lightening would sever sleep's pull and the crash of thunder that followed would snap him wide awake.

He gave up eventually and settled for watching the storm rampage above his window. It was better than closing his eyes and picturing Mrs. Pataki's sunken, bloodshot eyes and Helga's devastated face.

* * *

All morning Arnold had worried about what he would do, or say, when he saw Helga again. Different scenarios played out in his mind as he got ready, ate breakfast, and walked to school. By the time he made it into the building his stomach was rolling and his head felt stuffed full of cotton.

In the end he hadn't had to do anything because Helga took the matter out of his hands.

Arnold hadn't even seen her coming. One moment he was snapping his combination lock shut and the next he was being slammed into the lockers, the various locks and metal ridges digging into his back and making him wince.

Helga was glaring at him, eyes narrowed to slits. She pushed him deeper and shoved her face close to his, so close their noses brushed.

Arnold felt his breath hitch.

"H-Helga! What—"

"If you _dare _tell anyone what you saw yesterday," she hissed, "I will _end _you, Arnold." The use of his actual name gave a gravity to the threat that wasn't normally there and Arnold felt his heart quicken and sweat break out across his brow.

"I _wouldn't_!" Arnold exclaimed, angry that Helga had actually thought he would. When had Arnold ever given her the impression that he was a gossip? And more, that he'd gossip about something as… private as _that_?

"You'd better not," she gritted out.

They stared at each other for a long time and Arnold got the weird feeling that he was being suspended in thin air. Helga was so close he could see flecks of gray in the blue ring that encircled her pupil. She was so close he could feel her breath wash against his lips. She was so close the heat of her body seemed to seep through his clothes and sink into his skin, warming him from the outside in.

Arnold didn't know how long they stood there staring at each other. All he knew was that Helga's eyes were impossibly blue and her breath tasted like mint and she was very, very warm. The shampoo she always used—strawberry with a hint of something that Arnold could never put his finger on—was overwhelming his sense of smell. Arnold could hear the rapid drumming of a heartbeat, though whether it was hers or his own he didn't know.

He didn't know anything, in that moment, except that being bodily slammed into a locker by Helga G. Pataki shouldn't have felt so good.

They both jumped when the sound of a whistle being blow pierced the bubble that had surrounded them, and just like that everything—the noise in the hallway, the eyes trained on them, the awareness of how close they were standing—came rushing back. Helga swallowed and took several steps away from Arnold. He watched her put distance between them, first by moving away, and then again by adopting that blank expression Arnold so hated.

He didn't get a chance to say anything, though, because Ms. Chen, the P.E. teacher, was looming over them with a pinched look on her face. The whistle around her neck softly swung.

"You two, Vice Principal's office, _now_," she said, swiveling her glare between the two of them.

Arnold ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.

* * *

The visit to the Vice Principal's office went much better than expected. Ms. Cashew quietly asked what had happened and Arnold had been quick to assure her that it hadn't been what it looked like—that they'd been playing a little too rough and got carried away. She'd let them go with a warning about roughhousing in the school and a seventy-five minute detention after classes, which Arnold was secretly grateful for. They'd gotten off lightly.

No thanks to Helga, he thought bitterly, watching her stomp away to whatever her first period class was. She hadn't said a single word throughout the meeting to help Arnold out, even though Arnold had been doing his best to keep _both _of them from getting into serious trouble.

Arnold had wanted to take Ms. Cashew's yard stick and whack her over the head with it just to get _some _kind of response from her. He _hated _when she clammed up and started acting like a robot.

The moment he walked into his Spanish class and took his seat Gerald was on him.

"What the hell did you do to piss Helga off?" he hissed at him quietly, eyes on Mr. Feliciano's back.

Still feeling stung from what had happened in Ms. Cashew's office, Arnold said the first thing that came to mind.

"I breathed wrong," he muttered, angrily pulling out his books.

Gerald snorted in amusement. "Yeah, that would do it."

When Arnold glanced at him he thought Gerald looked almost relieved. Arnold frowned. But at what? That he'd gotten in trouble? No, Gerald wouldn't have been happy about that. So…that he'd pissed off Helga? It was a bit of a stretch, but...wait. Arnold thought about it. No, come to think of it, it wasn't. Gerald had been on his case about him and Helga for a while. In fact, at times he'd seemed almost paranoid about the possibility of them getting along (though why, Arnold hadn't the foggiest). If he considered it from that angle Gerald's relief almost made sense. It was no secret to anyone that Gerald wasn't Helga's biggest fan. Even if she had—well, mellowed down wasn't it, but_ distanced _herself from everyone, Gerald didn't seem to be able to forgive her for the crap she put them through in elementary school, not to mention her persistent abrasiveness.

In Gerald logic, this was probably the proof he'd needed that Arnold, true to his word, had not become friends with Helga and that the status quo would continue to remain the same.

If anyone disliked change more than Arnold, it was Gerald.

Sighing, Arnold opened his notebook and tried to concentrate on what the teacher was saying. It proved to be fruitless a few minutes later when he realized that the language she was speaking was, in fact, Spanish, and not garbled gibberish. He gave up soon after and started sketching caricatures in his book. He stopped when too many of them began to resemble the one person Arnold did _not, _under any circumstances, want to think about, so he switched over to scribbling nonsense instead.

A small folded piece of paper fell onto his desk and Arnold looked at it before glancing around. Gerald gave him an expectant look so he dutifully unfolded it.

_I heard you were sent to the VP. Punishment?_

Arnold quickly scrawled _lecture &amp; detention, _and tossed it back.

The next message hit him on the head. He turned and glared at Gerald, who smiled innocently, before opening it.

_Lucky_, was all it read_. _

Arnold dipped his head to show Gerald that he was in complete agreement with him and slipped the note into his pocket. He _was _lucky. Being caught fighting on school premises was usually a surefire way to get suspended. Arnold didn't know why Ms. Cashew had been so lenient with them, especially since she generally didn't tolerate that kind of behavior, but he was grateful for it. The last thing he wanted was to have to explain to his grandparents that he'd been suspended for fighting, and with a _girl_, no less—even if said girl could probably murder him with her hands tied behind her back and blindfolded.

Arnold shook his head, desperate to stop thinking about Helga. His head was already throbbing and the last thing he needed was to focus what little attention he had left on the one person who sent a thousand different signals racing to his brain and made him feel like he was stuck on a roller-coaster that refused to stop.

Arnold was so accomplished in his efforts, in fact, that he didn't even remember he was going to share a seventy-five minute detention with the source of all his troubles until he arrived at the assigned classroom after school and saw her sitting in the back, face turned towards the sole window.

She almost seemed to glow under the light of the late afternoon sun.

The memory of vivid blue eyes, dry, parted lips, and mint-scented breath flashed through his mind and Arnold had to close his eyes against the sudden heat that spread across his skin.

Seventy-five minutes.

Arnold thought he might have preferred the suspension after all**.**

* * *

**_tbc._**

* * *

**A/N:** I'm _so_ sorry for the mini-hiatus I took. "Real life" has finally started to wind down a bit so I should be able to update regularly again.

Some of you probably have questions regarding Helga's home life but all I'm going to say on the matter is that there _is _a story there and it will be further explored in later chapters.

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. Thanks for reading.


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